


Standing Eight Count

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Ward of Konoha [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Madara and Kakashi's dysfunctional friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Gai is someone worth staying for.His thrice-cursed rival, not so much.





	Standing Eight Count

**Author's Note:**

> **Part 3 of an AU wherein Madara survived the Fourth Shinobi War, but was felled in his battle against Gai.** After the war, he was brought back to Konoha as a ward of the village, much like Orochimaru. Gai, who had his damaged leg removed and replaced by one of Kankurō's prosthetic pieces, was assigned the task of being his warden (with constant check-ins by Kakashi). And that's about the long and short of it. Enjoy! XD

Consciousness is a state of being that Madara has always had a tumultuous relationship with.

Lying in bed well past the break of dawn—skin slightly damp where he perspires against his personal furnace—is a luxury he hasn’t had the opportunity nor the inclination to indulge in until now. It’s only been since this strange new beginning that he’s come to find merit in the act. There had been others whose bodies served him for the night in his first life, but he never cared to linger. Gai, though.

Gai is someone worth staying for.

His thrice-cursed rival, not so much.

“Go away, Hatake” he snarls, clinging to the comfortable haze as he teeters on the edge of sleep. His body is leaden and boneless, and he intends to keep it that way for at least another hour.

Sunbeams shine through the branches outside their window and illuminate the little ninken decorating his pillowcase, making them appear to run as the leaves rustle. Gai’s arm is a solid presence draped over his waist, shifting with each snuffling inhale. The world is blessedly quiet without the toll of warning gongs from an over-sensitive chakra system.

It would take an act of the Sage to move him from this small taste of paradise.

“Maa, so disrespectful. And here I am, volunteering to spend quality time reading to the elderly,” Kakashi drawls as he wriggles to find a more comfortable spot against the headboard. It takes a couple of tries and ultimately reaching under the covers to steal the pillow from between Madara’s knees for him to recline to his satisfaction. He sighs, crosses his ankles, and pulls out a well-worn manuscript.

It’s fairly obvious that he’s not going to be put off so easily today.

Madara bites back a groan.

This morning is practically perfect, and Hatake can—

“Fuck. Off.”

Cracking his eyes open just enough to drive his point home, Madara glares balefully, then turns in place and buries his face in Gai’s chest. He's made better life choices—they really should have showered after their impromptu sparring session late last night—but it's safer for everyone involved if he just ignores Hatake and pretends the pocket of air beneath the blankets doesn't smell like trash.

He refuses to waver. Instead, he shoves his face deep enough to pinch his nostrils shut between Gai’s pectorals and resolves to breathe through his mouth or die. Whichever will get him another stretch of Hatake-free bliss.

“So, page one-hundred and four. This is after the run-in at the flower shop and our couple is about to have their first kiss,” Kakashi announces. He clears his throat and Madara realizes that death is the only option.

His or Hatake’s, he’s not picky. 

“Mai's eyes widened and her whole body stiffened in his gentle hold. 'Oh, Kami,' she cried, tears spilling down her pale cheeks at the bountiful harvest of love she saw in his crystalline gaze,” Kakashi reads, voice thick in a way he probably thinks is seductive.

Madara’s never met a man who’s entire bearing screamed ‘virgin’ more in his life. Except possibly Tobirama. Though, he turned out to be very, very wrong about that shameless slut of a Senju, so who knows.

He lifts Gai’s arm and drapes it over his head to drown out the drivel. Muscle makes for surprisingly good sound-proofing he finds and chalks this one up as a victory. As he attempts to sink back into blissful slumber, Kakashi shifts and insinuates those bony knees far too close for comfort. He nudges Gai’s arm up just enough to whisper in Madara’s ear.

“Her slender body trembled as he leaned in close,” he continues without a care for the way Madara violently flinches and clutches the sheets close, “whispering his tender confession on her lips.”

“Stop!” Madara roars, though the sound is mostly muffled in Gai’s chest. He rears back and elbows Kakashi in the stomach, rolling over to start kicking as well. The sheets bunch under his heels and tear away the last barrier between himself and wakefulness.

“Stop. That line’s complete garbage. Too much purple prose and why would she be crying?” he snaps. Hissing in displeasure, he sits up and goes to unravel his sleeping plait before realizing that the weight of it is still missing.

It’s been days since his mane of hair was shorn in battle and he still can’t seem to stop reaching for it.

He takes out his steadily mounting frustration on the little shit in front of him, shoving his foot against Kakashi’s hip and using Gai’s solidity to brace himself. Chakra be damned, he kicks with all of the power of a man denied his lazy morning of equally lazy sex and breakfast in bed. 

Kakashi rolls with the motion like the worm he is. The bastard even has the audacity to laugh as he tumbles off of the bed and lands in a pile of lanky limbs on the floor.

Madara curses every bitch in the Hatake family tree for having the bloodline culminate in _this_. The curl of Kakashi’s dog-breath against his neck still lingers. Not even rubbing at the spot can get the gooseflesh to die down. If Madara still had his chakra, the Rokudaime Hokage would have been a smear of char for the insult. As it stands, he has to satisfy himself with breaking him down in other ways.

“Your writing is terrible and the world is worse for having read it.”

“Ah, you wound me,” Kakashi laments, clutching his chest. There’s a beat of hushed shuffling and he pops back up to his feet.

“Good. Die slowly,” Madara retorts. Still sluggish with the remnants of sleep, he yawns and stretches until there’s a satisfying pop in his shoulders. It takes a long moment to get his mind up to speed regarding anything that isn't Hatake's impending doom.

“Try ‘Elizabeth closed her eyes and snatched...no...fisted her hands in his shirt to guide him down’ or something more forceful. She was rather forward in the flower shop, she wouldn’t suddenly lose that strength.” He idly chews on a thumbnail. “Follow it up with a suggestion of vulnerability, though. ‘The first press of lips was as light as’…give me a word for something soft.”

Kakashi strokes his masked chin, appearing to be deep in thought.

“Yamato’s libido?” he finally offers, snorting at his own joke.

Sighing, Madara shoots him a dark look. “I said soft, not flaccid.” He retrieves the discarded sheet, not bothering to cover himself. If Hatake wants to barge into their bedroom at all hours of the day, he had better get used to getting an eyeful—not that he seems to care.

“Okay, fine. How about butterflies? They’re delicate,” Kakashi supplies.

Madara hums in approval and glances back at where Gai sprawls over most of the bed—bare, snoring, and blissfully unaware of the tragedy that’s unfolding here. Butterflies indeed. He wads up the sheet and tosses it petulantly at Gai’s face. There’s a muffled snore, deeper than the rest, then he settles once again. 

Madara may adore the man, but like hell he’s tucking Gai in when he himself has to battle past the burning in his eyes to deal with Hatake-fucking-Kakashi. This strange codependency between the two ‘rivals’ is ridiculous.

“'The first press of lips was as light as butterfly wings and three times as sweet.’ There. Fuck off and go fix your draft.”

“Huh. Not bad. Needs more pizzazz, though. And we’ve still got the whole next chapter to edit,” Kakashi says, gesticulating broadly with the manuscript. Sunlight makes his eyes shine as he turns towards the doorway and, for a brief second, Madara thinks he sees a red glint—there and gone. Strange the things exhaustion can make you imagine. He clears his throat and looks away.

“If you’re not going to take my suggestions, then why did you even come here?” he asks, blunting the bite of it by rolling his eyes.

“For the charming company, obviously,” Kakashi replies airily. “By the way, you have a hand-print on your ass.”

“And I would have more if you had written your ridiculous porn in your own residence,” Madara sneers, not bothering to reign in any of his cantankerous posturing. 

Viciously waving Kakashi off, he goes to take a shower and makes a point of staying under the stream long enough for the water to run cold. As a shinobi from an era without such technologies or luxuries, it’s no bother to freeze in the spray if it means inconveniencing the poor excuse for a Hokage—Lord of passive aggression and dog musk—warming their couch.

He washes himself slowly and watches the lather swirl around the drain, taking with it layers of sweat and grime. The sheets will have to be changed—maybe the ones with the single massive shuriken in the middle that never fails to make Gai laugh. They’re gaudy and a gift from his little clone, two things that engendered them to Gai near instantly.

Madara too, if he’s being honest with himself. 

Lee has a vivacity about him that’s much kinder and more honest than any he’s seen before. There’s pain and loss there, but not the kind that consumes and spits you out as a tattered patchwork of parts, more animal than human. He was raised well to be a good shinobi and an even better man. After all, how could he not having Gai as a surrogate father?

And just like that, Madara’s mood brightens. Thoughts of Gai have a tendency to do that.

He cuts the water and shakes his head at his own romanticism.

It’s the work of moments to dry off and shrug on clothing for the day. T-shirts are garish, but far more practical than the many-layered kimonos of his day. Trousers of this age are light and made of more pliant cloth as well. He studies himself in the mirror briefly—pulls at the skin under his eyes and wonders why he looks so much younger without the bags. Amazing what cosmetic miracles peace and _uninterrupted sleep_ can accomplish.

Not that he would know.

He rolls his eyes and exits the bathroom, making his way to Gai’s side. His overly trusting partner doesn’t even stir when Madara removes the sheet from his face, tucks him in, and presses a kiss to his brow.

There’s no reason to be cruel when Kakashi isn’t here to mock his besotted fussing.

Madara reluctantly pulls away and exits the room, telling himself not to turn back for a last glance and doing it regardless. Once he can batter the soft smile back down into his typical frown, he makes his way down the hall—straightening pictures as he goes—and crosses the threadbare carpet to where Kakashi has already settled in for the long haul. He collapses onto the couch close enough to bump knees and readily accepts both the proffered cup of tea and the manuscript for Kakashi’s newest novel.

The tales of young love are sweet in a way he’s not familiar with, but has gotten pretty decent at imagining. He blames the thriving tea houses he visits for that. It certainly has nothing to do with his own saccharine thoughts.

“Alright, stop stalling. Page one-hundred and four. Chop chop,” Kakashi chides, because he’s an unrepentant ass even when begging favors.

Madara snatches the pencil out of his hand—and isn’t that one of the more interesting technologies to come about—and starts scanning the columns of kanji.

“This is awful,” he pronounces after less than five seconds of staring at the atrociously blurred figures. Two can play at this game.

Groaning loudly, Kakashi oozes off of the couch and goes to the kitchen without a word. There’s a concerning clatter, the slamming of several drawers, then he comes back and almost violently shoves Madara’s spectacles onto his face. 

“There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Madara simpers.

He grins up at Kakashi’s put-upon expression and mentally tallies another victor point. It’s immature, but he takes his pleasures where he can.

Battle of wills won, he adjusts his glasses and dives into the story in earnest.

It’s lovely. The descriptions are well wrought and the emotion palpable. Aside from Kakashi’s insistence on spewing adjectives and similes after every third word, it’s a fair first draft.

He scratches notes in the margins—underlines sentences that he thinks are structured particularly well.

It’s amusing to be doing something like this when he himself hadn’t even bothered to learn how to read until he was well into his teens. He was always hard pressed to keep up with a training regime that allowed him to clash with Hashirama on equal footing. Regardless, Izuna was always better at multitasking and easy enough to goad into writing missives. 

There was never a dire need to read or write when others could do it in his stead.

Exercising this skill is simply another facet of his strange new life, he supposes.

“I like the way you’ve incorporated Mai’s persistence. You’ve drawn emphasis to her strong constitution in the face of Harada’s reluctance to confess his feelings. As much as I loath to admit it, I can’t find fault with the story itself,” Madara concludes, tapping the pencil against his lips thoughtfully.

“That being said, this chapter’s length is going to be halved by the time I cross out all of the ‘heaving bosoms’ and ‘lustful gazes.’”

To his credit, Kakashi _has_ toned his nonsense down since the last book he published. Madara threw everything within reach at him for four days before they could finally hash out an armistice through the door. Amazing what persistence and a temper can accomplish even when your chakra is sealed.

“What is your obsession with pointing out the size of Mai’s chest so regularly?” he asks in genuine puzzlement.

Kakashi crosses his legs—one of the man’s tells when he’s uncomfortable—and rolls his hand at the wrist. “Oh, you know, I just feel like it’s the something Harada would really notice. Anyways, keep going,” he says, making a shooing motion.

In a show of mercy, Madara lets the subject drop. He spends the next hour scribbling suggestions and making corrections while Kakashi pulls out one of the Sanin’s old works. A companionable silence settles between them and Madara finds himself admitting that it’s not the worst way to spend a morning. Certainly not the best, but sacrifices must be made for literature.

Around early afternoon, there’s finally the sounds of stirring from the bedroom. Madara continues what he’s doing and fights valiantly to keep the smile at bay when he hears the rhythmic thumping down the hall.

There’s an unspoken agreement between himself and Kakashi, hashed out over time. As one, they scoot to opposite ends of the couch to make space between them.

“Good morning to you, my youthful companions!” Gai pronounces with far too much vigor for a man with sheet wrinkles still imprinted on the side of his face. He casually holds himself steady against the wall and Madara can’t help but to watch from beneath his bangs. He follows the valley of Gai’s musculature down from his chest to where a pair of sleep pants ride low on his hips, one pant-leg hanging loose.

“Good morning,” Madara replies.

“Afternoon, actually,” Kakashi says simultaneously.

Madara glances over at him and realizes that Kakashi has been watching him the entire time; he looks away first, willing away the heat in his cheeks. He’s been caught staring. Again.

“It’s not like you to sleep in, Gai,” Kakashi points out as he shifts his attention, raising a single eye-brow.

Shrugging good-naturedly, Gai lets go of the wall and hops his way over to the couch. He bobs on the ball of his foot and leaps over the coffee table before spinning in place and letting the couch cushion his fall. Madara and Kakashi both bounce slightly as the coil springs bemoan the added load.

The equally not-insubstantial weight of his arms settles around their shoulders.

“Ah, the fiery passions of the night called for a battle of endurance, my rival,” he states far too enthusiastically. The smile he offers is white enough to glow and Madara has to double down on editing so as not to be taken by the affected guilelessness.

He knows for a fact Gai purposefully phrased that to imply every possible innuendo.

The innocent act is all a ploy.

“Kinky,” Kakashi comments, wrinkling his nose. “But those ‘passions of the night’ reek. I live with ninken and I’m about to open a window.”

Gai just laughs and pulls them both in. Holding his breath, Madara accepts the chaste kiss to his temple then starts shoving as Gai leans over to give Kakashi the same treatment.

“As much as I loath to admit it, Hatake is right. Go bathe. You smell atrocious,” Madara starts to complain, inhaling deeply through his mouth in preparation of a truly scathing diatribe about beasts and monikers. It’s almost as if Gai senses the build-up. He throws his weight back against Madara and gifts him with a light peck on the corner of his mouth.

Miraculously, Madara’s anger peters out in an instant.

Such underhanded tactics and so shamefully effective. Whomever underestimates this man is a fool.

“Ah, a fine start to a wondrous day. Will you be staying for breakfast, rival?” Gai asks as he squeezes Kakashi’s shoulder.

He says it as if Madara has allowed him near the stove more than a handful of times in the past four years. When Madara was first dragged to Konoha—kicking, screaming, and flashing through every hand sign he knew in hopes of a single spark—curry had seemed one of Gai’s favored torture tactics. As a shinobi with a Katon affinity, Madara should have been accustomed to swallowing fire. Apparently his gut disagreed quite vehemently on that point.

It took six months of railing at whomever he could corner to finally strong-arm his way into the kitchen and boot the Beast out for good.

Kakashi sighs.

“Maa, as much as I would love to stay and be poisoned, Yamato’s gonna have seedlings if I don’t go in.” At this, he intentionally makes eye-contact with Madara. “My input is pretty important, you know…what with being Hokage and all.”

If he were a more petulant man with any less self-control, Madara would tell their illustrious Hokage to get a pry-bar and wedge that worthless hat straight up his virgin asshole.

“Shove that hat up your ass, Hatake.”

Well, at least it didn’t come out with as colorful language as he had been imagining. Perhaps he deserves the slight downturn of Gai’s lips this time.

“Too soon?” Kakashi chirps.

Perhaps not.

Even without the rising pressure of the Sharingan, Madara’s blood sings and he sees red. The only thing stopping him from flying across the couch and throttling Kakashi until that smirking mouth is open wide and gasping for breath is Gai’s firm grip on the back of his neck.

“It’s so good to see the beautiful bonds of camaraderie growing between my two most beloved people,” Gai says with good cheer. “In fact, these friendly jests are the very foundations on which Kakashi and I established our rivalry!”

Madara highly doubts murderous rage was the starting point for their absurd friendship, but, Gai knows that. He’s also well aware that subtly shaming them both is the only way to keep the jealousy at bay. Not that Madara will admit to being in any way envious of a man who smells like dog and has the postural stability of a soba noodle.

“Yes. Fine. I’ll play nice.”

His reward is another of those ear-to-ear grins with the added benefit of a thumbs-up. The flush of warmth this time has nothing to do with anger.

“Go shower,” he snaps as he settles back against the couch, arms crossed.

“Yosh!” The couch scoots back from the force with which Gai reclaims his arms and rocks up to his foot. His spider-web scars pull and stretch with the motion, purple on brown. “A refreshing shower and a hearty meal will ensure an auspicious start to the day. Though the village has need of your guidance, we would be happy to see you for dinner, my friend,” he shoots back at Kakashi. “Madara makes a most satisfying Nikujaga!”

“We’ll see,” Kakashi replies noncommittally.

With that, Gai gives them both a double thumbs-up—obviously a newly devised jutsu since sharing is a problem—and clears the coffee table with a powerful backwards leap. Turmimg on his heel, he hops down the hall and seems to take the sunshine along with him.

Madara inhales a sharp breath and hunkers back down with the pencil in-hand. Kakashi eases towards the middle of the couch and does the same despite implying he was leaving only a moment before.

Madara doesn’t know why he and Kakashi are at each other’s throats when their resident Beast is around and mostly content to share a space when he’s not. Well, he does, but he’ll suck a space-folding jutsu right out of Tobirama’s dick before ever admitting it.

“So, you and Gai. Really weird and I almost regret asking, but is it serious or just sex?” Kakashi’s voice is deceptively light.

And Madara would debase himself even further at Tobirama’s feet if it meant turning back time to save him from this conversation.

He doesn’t have to glance over to know exactly which fake affectation of humor Kakashi is wearing. With that prolonged s and the rising lilt at the end, it’s the one where his brows rise so high his closed eyes appear to curve up like an animated television character.

It’s the most dangerous of all of his seemingly benign expressions.

Fuck.

“Don’t bother with the threats, Hatake. I’d sooner fall on my katana than hurt him,” Madara grunts. He busies himself with adjusting his glasses and pulling the manuscript closer. It’s impossible to actually read the words with such intense focus leveled at the side of his head, but he makes a valiant effort.

“Pretty sure I expressly forbade weapons,” Kakashi replies brightly.

“Then I’ll hurl myself from the roof.”

“I also said no property damage.”

Groaning in frustration, Madara tears off his spectacles and flings the manuscript clear across the room in a fit of pique. Kakashi watches it go and winces when it slams into the wall and flutters to the floor. Chips of plaster settle on its well-loved cover. 

“Then I don’t know what you want from me,” Madara roars, wishing he had thought to put on his gloves to hide his white-knuckled grasp. It’s embarrassing how easily this man gets a rise out of him—sometimes he’s so like that damn Senju it _hurts_.

“Maa, nothing to get worked up over,” Kakashi drawls as he hangs his arm off of the back of the couch, bringing his legs up. “I just want to make sure I’m not going to have to scrape up the pieces of another friend.”

The temperature in the room seems to plummet right along with Madara’s stomach.

“This is different. And I’ve apologized to the boy,” he chokes out. There’s a hollowness in his chest that makes his words fall flat, echoing weakly.

“Funny how saying you’re sorry doesn’t magically fix things.” Kakashi, for all that he affects an aloof façade, is a shinobi through and through.

Every word finds a home in Madara’s soul, sharp and swift as a kunai. It would have been easier to have died at the end of the war than face the repercussions of his actions. The oily film of regret isn’t a mantle he was prepared to don this morning.

“Whatever. You did what you did and Obito will forgive you or he won’t. That’s not what I’m talking about.” Kakashi slowly uncurls from the couch and brushes off imaginary lint. He adjusts his mask to ride higher on the bridge of his nose.

“Those who abandon their friends are worse than scum. If you don’t want to hurt Gai, just don’t. It’s that easy. But I’ll be here to step in if it looks like you’re anywhere close to losing it again.”

And just like that, the rising tension shatters. This isn’t an attack launched to break him at his weakest point. Neither is it one of Ibiki’s wretched jutsus ensnaring the tattered remnants of his mind and molding them into something vaguely human-shaped.

In Kakashi’s unique way, he’s offering his support.

As a friend.

To Madara.

Madara finds himself floundering in the face of the unexpected. The Warring Clan Era scarred him so deeply that he thought this side of himself long dead—the side that understands how to accept an outstretched hand without looking for the knife held in the other.

Fortunately, Kakashi is as broken as he is and knows how to navigate emotional minefields.

“I’ll hold you to that. Now go prattle on at someone who cares to listen,” Madara hisses through his teeth as he slings the pencil like a javelin and embeds it in the far wall. “Dinner is at seven.”

Kakashi snorts and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Sure. Good talk.”

Madara continues to glare daggers at his back as he retrieves the manuscript—carefully blowing dust from the cover—and plucks the quivering pencil from the wall. His wild hair brushes the door frame like most of the people in the ridiculous, tree-like generation.

Hashirama’s influence, surely; one last persistent short joke from the grave. 

“Kakashi,” he calls out.

Humming, Kakashi turns.

“Thank you.”

The jackass has the audacity to wink before he slips out of the door.

It whispers against the carpet and clicks closed just as softly. There’s some sort of poetic analogy there, but Madara can’t seem to pin it down. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and buries his face into his palms.

First he was gifted with a partner. Now a comrade.

What kind of bizarre world has he stumbled into?

When rubbing vigorously fails to provide any answers, he forgoes his introspection and rises to make breakfast instead—tomagoyaki, grilled fish, natto, kobachi, and miso enough for four grown men, because if there’s anything he and Gai excel at, it’s eating.

There was never such a bounty in his era. Madara has since resolved to make up for the lack of his childhood by gorging himself and working out with Gai until every ounce of protein turns to muscle.

It’s a simple life. Simple and strangely good.

He sifts through the cabinets, gathering the cookware he’ll need and roots through the fridge for the last of the vegetables—a few limp-leafed radishes, cabbage, and a particularly large, but wizened carrot. It’ll do.

Gathering them up, he retrieves the cutting board and settles in for a few minutes of uninterrupted meditation, lulled by the repetitious sound of chopping. 

Having time to think is another gift of domesticity provided by this second chance he doesn’t deserve.

He wants it, though. So badly. He wants to laugh with Kotetsu over trivial, idiotic gossip, to pick apart Yamato’s jutsus until the man snaps and rails like Hashirama never did. He wants to huddle over a manuscript for the next edition of Icha Icha, collaborating with Kakashi on prose so florid and graphic that his little brother’s double leaves the Hokage’s office in a snit.

By some miracle, he’s managed to carve out a life here—something wholesome and good in ways he could never have imagined in his own time. The chakra seal on his neck is a small price to pay for having found this sense of family again.

He wants to stay.

But most of all, he wants Gai.

At this point, he can’t imagine a life where he isn’t blessed to wake up to that earnest smile.

To walk beside this larger-than-life man in comfortable companionship.

To use his body to communicate all of the affections his words cannot.

To love and be loved as a man, not a shinobi—this is what he wants more than anything. It’s pathetic. He feels like one of Kakashi’s characters, chasing romance and too thick to realize it was there all along.

Madara freezes in place.

Sage’s balls.

Civilian or not, _friend_ or not, he’s going to murder Hatake Kakashi for this.

_Mai_ and _Harada_. It’s not even _subtle_.

The realization is so ludicrous it takes him aback. His shoulders start to shake, gently at first, then so hard the knife slips. Slivers of radish and the red bloom of blood on his fingertips start to waver in his vision. The first laugh comes as a stuttered series of breaths, growing in volume until he’s doubled over and his stomach aches with it.

Each rising guffaw sounds like a sob, but he can’t help it. He’s not upset, just ugly when he’s this far gone. 

Fuck Hatake. Fuck him sideways, that absolute _monster_.

There’s a clamor from across the house and the sudden, warm solidity of Gai’s hand against the small of his back, rubbing small circles intended to sooth. It only makes him laugh harder. Finally—as his throat begins to burn and every exhale turns into a wheeze—Madara forces himself to sober enough to uncurl and lean his head back on Gai’s broad shoulder.

Gai wraps his arms loosely around his waist and plants a tender kiss to his temple. Water drips onto Madara’s face from his still-wet hair. 

“Are you well?” he asks with nothing but honest concern.

Apparently Madara laughing is cause for worry. He should probably do it more until it’s not. 

“Fine. I’m fine. You have terrible companions, though,” Madara tells him, then shudders through another bought of residual merriment. He really needs to stop, but it’s so hard not to find amusement in his own stunted emotions.

Harada, indeed.

He turns in Gai’s arms and takes his face in-hand. Gai isn’t a conventionally handsome man, but his strong features are a reflection of the power that resides within him—nothing about him is smooth or subtle. Madara smiles more genuinely than he ever has and kisses away the wrinkle between Gai’s thick brows.

Well, if he’s one of the protagonists in Kakashi’s book, he’ll just have to live up to the narrative that’s already been written on page one-hundred and four.

“I, Madara,” he begins in the same tone he once used to pronounce Gai the strongest, “love you, Maito Gai.”

Gai grins, the special, private smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens the world at its edges. “I know. But it fills my heart with joy to hear you say it.”

When Madara pushes up to seal the confession with a kiss, it’s not ‘as light as butterfly wings and three times as sweet’, but he thinks it’s damn near close.

**Author's Note:**

> After this I'll be going back and exploring the events that led to Madara being brought to/integrated with Konoha. I honestly look forward to writing Madara's pompousness and bite in the context of this universe. :D Feel free to comment with MadaGai prompts or any specific themes/scenes you would like to see.


End file.
